Delivered like elongated dressers, these “eternity boxes” promised a deep sleep.
The residents, pragmatic, assemble, paint, and pretend not to notice the little cross on the instructions.
At dawn, whole pallets sprouted in front of the buildings: whitewashed wood, chrome handles, built-in pillow. The logistics software—christened, in the very height of good taste, DORS+—mixed up “chests” and “coffins.” Result: half the neighborhood treated itself, at the knockdown price of a wobbly shelf, to a perfectly straight piece of furniture in which to think askew.
Upcycling is in full swing. Some turn the object into a minimalist bookcase; others into a hanging planter, watered “with respect and two fingers.” Outside the florist’s, wreaths “before their time” are selling like hotcakes. “It’s the first time a piece of furniture has looked at me as if I were the accessory,” says a now-serene Mireille Tasse, 57, who placed her crime novels inside “so they’d feel at home.”
The corner bar has rechristened its terrace “Rest Corner,” slashing the price of a cocktail black as an absence. At the gym, a core-bracing class promises “a flawless last square.” You get used to anything fast: “At least this one doesn’t collapse when I sit on it,” sighs a neighbor, before adding, “And if you have to wait, you might as well do it lying down.”
At GIGA-MOBILIER, they’re talking about a “lying-down misunderstanding” and an imminent recall, with a voucher and a sorry screwdriver. But the city’s in no hurry: for once a piece of furniture accepts being left without drama, why return it? The after-life service has never known such enthusiasm.
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